


Home For Christmas

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Family, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-19
Updated: 2008-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 09:55:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You got what you've always wanted and you can't even appreciate it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home For Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> "I'll Be Home For Christmas" lyrics by James Gannon and music by Walter Kent, copyright 1943. Beta'ed by the lovely [](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/profile)[**leiascully**](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/) and [](http://hannahrorlove.livejournal.com/profile)[**hannahrorlove**](http://hannahrorlove.livejournal.com/). All remaining gaffes are mine. Spoilers for the series up to "Joy to the World."

_I'll be home for Christmas;  
You can count on me.  
Please have snow and mistletoe  
And presents on the tree._

~~~~~

 

Wilson looked up from his interminable paperwork to squint at the lopsided silhouette blocking his office door.

"You're not at the party downstairs," the ghost intoned.

It was the not-entirely-unwelcome specter of House. Wilson set down his pen and pointed at the sheaf of papers covering every square inch of his desk. "You do know, House, that some of us actually believe in the philosophy of work before pleasure."

He peered more closely at the sad, thoughtful look on House's face. "Your teenage eclampsia patient wasn't approved for the heart-liver transplant," Wilson said quietly.

House looked past him, to the _Ordinary People_ movie poster behind the desk. "She'll be lucky to last to Christmas."

Wilson shook his head in sympathy. "God. I'm sorry."

House hobbled stiffly into the office and dropped onto the couch. He withdrew his Vicodin from his shirt pocket, but rather than opening it, he shook the vial, frowning at the rattling of the pills inside.

"Did they find the baby's body?" Wilson asked after a few moments of pills clicking in the bottle.

The rattling noise stopped, and House looked up. "They recovered the baby, yes."

Wilson blinked, parsing the reply. _Baby's body... baby._ "It -- was alive?" he asked at last.

House sank back into the cushions and tucked the Vicodin away. "A couple of crack heads found it soon after Miss Eclampsia popped it out and left it for dead. They took care of it until Cuddy swooped in and claimed it for her own."

"Cuddy's getting the baby?" Wilson felt his eyebrows rise to his hair.

"She says none of the grandparents or the father wants it. Lucky for her. She already has her legal attack hounds working on temporary custody."

Wilson couldn't help but grin. "So she's going to be a mother after all. Wow! That -- that's a miracle."

"She's cooing over the miracle in the nursery as we speak."

Wilson shook his head in wonder, until he saw House's forlorn expression, and everything clicked in his mind. "House, it'll be okay," he said gently. "Cuddy got what she wanted, but it doesn't mean--"

"Yeah."

A part of Wilson ached at the flat tone and House's tacit resignation to the inevitable. But there was nothing else to do. He had led the horse to water, but if it was too stubborn to drink... After a minute of studying House, who was now resting his chin on the handle of his cane, Wilson turned back to his paperwork--

Then he jumped at the loud thwack of a cane hitting his desk. His pen tumbled to the floor, immediately forgotten as House's shadow blotted out the light.

"Grab your coat and whatever killjoy paperwork you'll insist on taking along. We're leaving."

Wilson blinked. "We?"

"Did you miss that grammar lesson in middle school? We. A plural pronoun used to refer to me and someone else, in this case you, doing something together. As in, we are going to my mom's place for Christmas. Tonight."

Wilson felt his mouth open and close like a fish, until he finally could utter, "_Tonight?_"

"Except all flights to Lexington are booked so we'll have to drive. It's a twelve-hour trip. We leave tonight, we'll get there by noon, tops. I'll even take first shift driving."

"But the Christmas party downstairs--"

"Is lame. Possibly even lamer than fruit cake, which you happen to like -- especially my mom's."

Wilson felt his eyebrows knit in familiar exasperation. "Did you stop to think that perhaps I might have made other plans for the holidays?"

"Moping in your apartment watching old Christmas movies? Pathetic. Besides, you don't celebrate Christmas, you're Jewish."

Wilson pursed his lips a moment before replying, "Neither do you."

"Ah, but I'm not Jewish."

"In fact, normally Scrooge doesn't hold a candle to you. May I ask what's engineered your apparent change in heart?"

House placed his hand over his heart. "What is the world coming to when you frown on a dutiful son returning home to his widowed mother for Christmas?"

House sounded light-hearted enough, but the look in his eyes was anything but. Wilson's worry center tingled, and he spread his hands in concern. "House. What's really going--"

"And I know you keep a full bag packed in your trunk just in case you need to travel on short notice. Call this short notice."

Wilson thought quickly, reading between the lines. House and Christmas didn't mix at the best of times. Certainly there were a few past Christmas memories Wilson wished he could blot away forever. He might end up counting this one's among them. On the other hand, House was reaching out to him in the oddly thoughtful selfishness he sometimes showed. If anyone knew how lonely the holidays could be, it would be him--_especially this year._

To House he said, "All right. Just let me grab something from my desk first."

House's whole body relaxed. "How long?"

"Two minutes, tops. I'll meet you downstairs."

House was already beelining to the elevators. "One minute!" he shouted over his shoulder. "We have to swing by my place to get some stuff."

"Of course," Wilson said to the empty office, composing himself. The uneven thump-taps had already disappeared into the elevator by the time he rose and swept a pile of paper into his briefcase. He closed it with a snap, grabbed his coat and scarf from the coat tree, and went to catch up with House.

In the car, waiting for House to throw some clothes into his backpack, Wilson sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose as he stared at the cars buried under layered plates of snow. A lone light shone in House's living room, illuminating one of his wall-length shelving units. Wilson thought of the rows of first editions of various medical texts tucked on the bookshelves. House hadn't bothered to open last year's present until this year. _Ungrateful bastard._ Even more so because this year's gift to House was safely stowed in his briefcase. Amber had picked up both of them for him on a trip to Montreal, just a month before--

No. To be fair, House wouldn't have known. Though knowing that couldn't stop the chill of hurt that started in Wilson's chest and spread to his fingers. He turned up the heat in the Volvo to full blast, but he couldn't stop shivering.

He was still hunched in his coat when House appeared at the driver's side window, snow dusting his cap and shoulders.

"Shove over," he called through the glass. "I said I'd take first shift."

Wilson did so numbly, letting House slide in. He leaned against the window, fog forming in front of his lips as he breathed.

After House settled and changed the station from light classical to classic rock, he shot Wilson a sharp look, but said nothing. Wilson tried not to think about how much it resembled Amber's appraising glare. He closed his eyes instead.

"We'll change by Johnstown. Get some sleep," House said as he put the car in gear.

~~~~~

 

The trip, including House's need for frequent stops and the light snow that slicked the roads from Princeton to Maryland, took closer to fifteen hours. Wilson drove the last leg; surprisingly, House had let him sleep through the first two shifts, so they were past the worst of the winter weather by the time they reached the rest stop halfway between Weston and Charleston, West Virginia. House was beyond exhausted by the time they pulled into Blythe House's neat paved driveway in Lexington. He had rested only fitfully, kneading his thigh in his half-sleep.

"We're here," Wilson said as he killed the engine.

House's eyes fluttered open. "Finally."

Wilson peered at the tidy bungalow through the beading droplets on the windshield, his stomach sinking and an incipient headache creeping up at the sight of the darkened front windows.

"House? Is your mother even home?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. She might have gone to Aunt Sarah's."

Wilson's neck throbbed. "We drove for fifteen hours through a blizzard to get here, and you're telling me you didn't bother to call her and let her know we were coming."

"I may have forgotten. Rotten weather, remember?"

"I don't believe this!" A blinding pain seared from his back to his forehead and he massaged the throbbing in his temples. "Please tell me that at least you have a key." House didn't answer.

Wilson had just estimated House had about five seconds left to live before Wilson strangled him, when a blue Sonata pulled up beside them. House slumped down the passenger seat, pulling his cap forward over his eyes.

Blythe House opened the car door and stepped out warily. She held her purse up like a shield. "Hello?"

"Get out and greet your mother, House," Wilson snapped as he opened his own door, climbed out, and stood up.

Puzzlement resolved into a broad smile on Blythe's face. "James!"

"Hi, Mrs. House," he said over the top of the Volvo.

House got out of the car and stood, stiff. "Hi, Mom."

"Greg!" The purse dropped to the pavement, forgotten, as Blythe rushed forward to hug her son.

It hurt to see House so inhibited about showing any sort of affection, even with his mom, but Wilson grinned as House awkwardly returned her embrace. Not even House was resistant to his mom.

Blythe drew back. "It's so good to see you, but why didn't you call? I was going to go to Sarah's this afternoon, I might have missed--"

"I thought we'd surprise you."

"And you did! It's wonderful!"

Wilson rounded the Volvo, and Blythe hugged him, too. "Thank you, James," she whispered.

"It was House's idea, actually," he said.

Blythe's whole face lit up as she turned back towards House, who was smiling his oddly down-turned grin. She let go of Wilson and hugged House again, rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Oh, Greg."

This time House hugged her properly. Some of the tension dissipated from Wilson's neck as he watched House return the kiss.

Blythe drew back suddenly and looked around. "Oh, heavens! I have to call Sarah and let her know I'm spending tomorrow with you and James now. And shopping! I have nothing in the house for Christmas dinner. I'll have to go now, there's only a few hours left before the stores close--"

House tried to hide a leg spasm. Both Wilson and Blythe saw, and her face sobered. "Dear, you're exhausted, you go rest. James, do you mind helping me?"

"Of course not," Wilson said, pushing his headache back by sheer force of will. "House? Let's get our things first."

They went to the trunk of the Volvo as Blythe hurried inside. Wilson grabbed the bags out and gave House his backpack, leaning close. "I hope you got something for your mom for Christmas."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Wilson scowled. "Seriously."

House actually looked contrite. _Score._ Glancing up at the front door, he pulled out his wallet and handed Wilson two hundred dollars. "Get something nice," he said.

Wilson rolled his eyes, but accepted the money. "Now go and do as your mom says."

House withdrew his Vicodin and popped two of them, dry-swallowing. "Yes, dear," he mocked. They headed inside to drop their bags.

Blythe met them at the door. "Do you want lunch first, boys?"

House's jaw twitched. "I'm good, Mom," he said, and limped heavily towards the guest bedroom.

Wilson and Blythe watched House's retreating form; they turned to each other to share a sober look when House closed the door. Wilson didn't know what to say, but he had a sense that she was thinking the same thing. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.

"Let me take you to lunch, James," she said instead, squeezing his hand.

~~~~~

 

Wilson had never seen anyone so efficient at shopping as Blythe House. By the time he'd picked out House's and his gifts to her in a jewelry store -- after he'd set his bag inside the house, he'd quickly poked his head into the living room to see a small collection of Southern belles by Royal Doulton -- she'd already finished the groceries. He carried them to the car for her.

The drive back to her house was mostly silent. Blythe looked composed, even serene, yet Wilson couldn't help but think there were two specters traveling with them. One was resting back at Blythe's. The other seemed to hover over her, a missing piece of the whole. He knew exactly how that felt, since he had his own--

"I am so sorry about Amber," she said, breaking the silence.

Wilson jumped, startled. How would she have known--? But aloud he said "Thank you, Mrs. House," letting her small kindness temper the surge of sadness that still welled up at the sound of her name.

"James, please, you don't need to be so formal." She smiled at him. "Call me Blythe."

Wilson watched the strip malls and fast-food restaurants loom up in the windshield in front and swoop on past. Blythe continued to speak.

"I never got the chance--you two had left before the service was over--but I wanted to thank you for bringing Greg to the funeral. I know how difficult it must have been for you."

Wilson nodded, his throat tight.

"You know, right up to the end, John hoped that Greg would come to visit," Blythe continued in a soft voice. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel as she stared straight ahead. "When it didn't happen... but I think John would have been happy to know that Greg at least came to his funeral." She glanced over at him, amusement dancing around her eyes. "Even considering how late you arrived. Not to mention the broken window."

Wilson shifted in his seat, avoiding Blythe's look. "About that..."

Blythe chuckled; her fingers relaxed on the wheel. "The funeral home was more than happy with the check you sent for repairs."

He nodded, inwardly sighing with relief. At least there weren't any charges for vandalism laid this time. The Louisiana warrant had been more than enough for one lifetime.

"Greg used to be such an optimistic, cheerful little boy," she continued, checking over her shoulder for an opening in the traffic. "John kept insisting it wasn't my fault, what happened between them. Yet sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out, if only--"

She did not finish her thought; she smoothly merged into the turnoff lane to her suburb instead.

"We'll be home soon," she said. "Thank you for helping. You go right inside and rest, I'll take the groceries in."

Wilson began to protest. "Mrs.--Blythe, let me at least--"

"That's not a request, dear," she chided.

Wilson ducked his head, secretly grateful. It was only his sense of chivalry that kept him going right now--like House, he was beyond exhausted now. "Yes, ma'am."

When Blythe smiled, he could almost forget the specters hovering above them, waiting to be heard.

~~~~~

 

Christmas Day dawned gray and rainy.

Wilson sat in front of the gas fire in the living room, a mug of cinnamon-hazelnut coffee in his hands. He missed the whiteness they'd left behind in Princeton; he knew that any snow in Lexington never lasted long. Blythe though, with a seemingly effortless sweep of her holiday wand, had transformed the house into a warm, cheery enclave overnight. A two-foot Christmas tree, real evergreen in a blue-and-gold pot and blinking with white and red lights, sat on a corner table. A modest number of wrapped boxes circled the tree. It was, he thought, picture-perfect, down to the smell of spruce here, and sage and rosemary wafting from the kitchen. He found himself secretly thanking House for insisting that they come.

Even House's dour face lit up unreservedly when he stumbled out of his bedroom that morning. He headed straight for the tree, but Blythe caught him and tapped his hand.

"You know you have to get dressed first," she said.

Wilson grinned, betting that was an old tradition. It was; House meekly about-faced. Blythe enveloped him in a grand hug at the door of the living room when he returned a few minutes later, fully dressed.

"Merry Christmas!"

Wilson rose, and Blythe hugged him, too. Then she stepped back, waiting. House glanced away.

"Boys?"

House stuck his hand out awkwardly. "Merry Christmas, Wilson," he muttered.

Wilson grasped the proffered hand. "You too, House," he said. They shook hands. Glancing sidelong at Blythe, he saw her smile tighten a bit with disappointment. It was hard to explain, how House's few spontaneous physical displays of affection were always couched in ways that most people wouldn't notice. To force the issue, Wilson gripped House's elbow. "Merry Christmas," he said, hoping House would take the hint.

House actually returned the gesture--doing so a little shyly, Wilson thought with surprise. House even seemed to hold onto his elbow longer than expected -- enough at least so that when they let go, Blythe looked satisfied. They sat down for Blythe to pass the presents around.

It was, Wilson decided, both odd and satisfying to watch House behave around his mother. Not quite like a pod person--even when cowed, House always found a way to get his own back -- but when Blythe exclaimed over the winter Southern belle (Wilson gave her the autumn one), House was outright pleased and almost gracious in accepting her thanks. A glimpse of another House, Wilson thought, that was hidden under too many layers of hardness.

Blythe handed House a solid, thick package wrapped in red paper with a green bow.

"Greg, this is from James."

House raised an eyebrow which Wilson well knew was in suspicion, but he accepted the present. Wilson sat back casually, waiting for House's reaction when he opened it to reveal a handsome, leather-bound first edition of Sir William Osler's _The Principles and Practice of Medicine_.

"James, that's lovely," Blythe said.

House stared down at it in his lap. His index finger traced the embossing along the spine. Wilson watched, vindication surging at House's mouth twisting with guilt.

"Wow," he said softly, "this is--unexpected. Thanks, Wilson."

Wilson suppressed his victory grin. "You're welcome."

Several moments passed as Wilson basked in House's awkward appreciation. Meanwhile, Blythe's eyes narrowed when there was nothing left under the tree with Wilson's name on it.

"Greg? Didn't you get James anything for Christmas?"

"He gave me his present before we left," Wilson said blandly. Secretly he cheered Blythe's gentle, yet firm reproach, and crowed at the vaguely contrite look on House's face.

The oven timer buzzed from the kitchen. "Excuse me, boys, the turkey needs basting," Blythe said as she rose. "I'll just be a minute."

When Blythe left the room, House leaned over. Of course, while House behaved nicely around Blythe, everyone else was fair game. "You opened it?" he asked, _sotto voce_.

"Of course. Why not?"

"It was mine! I earned that!"

"You threw it at me and didn't ask for it back. _Ergo_, mine."

House glowered at him, but Wilson only pasted an innocent smile on his face. After a brief pause, House continued, "What was in it?"

"Lindor truffles."

House raised his eyebrows. "How much?"

"Two pounds."

House shot him a faintly predatory look, to which Wilson added deliberately, "And if I even suspect you've touched them for any reason, I will tell Taub everything I know about you."

"What, are you two part of the brotherhood of philanderers now? Do you have a secret handshake too?"

Wilson simply smirked. He did not miss the brief flash of worry that had crossed House's face, or that House's reply came a beat too late. So his suspicions were right -- Taub had gotten a point on House recently. _Perfect._ He could use an ally -- maybe he would fill Taub in on some of the more salacious points someday.

By then Blythe had returned, sat down, and had her reading glasses perched on her nose. "Here's a gift from me, James," she said as she handed over a small, red gift bag.

Wilson pulled out a pocket-size, black-leather covered appointment book. He grinned appreciatively. "Thank you, Mrs. House." To House he held it up and added, "This too. Got it?"

House pulled a face. Blythe, amused shook her head. "You two," she admonished fondly.

There was only one item remaining under the tree, close to the wall. But when Blythe pulled it out, her expression sobered, and Wilson felt the air change in the room. The item was a crisp, white envelope, with "Gregory" written on it in a hand that Wilson didn't quite recognize. House did though, and he stiffened.

Blythe fingered the edges of the envelope in her lap. "Greg, this is a letter from your father," she said after a long moment of awkward silence. "You had left the funeral before I had a chance to give this to you."

She held the letter out towards him, her hand trembling. Wilson felt his shoulders tense automatically at the sullen frown that settled on his friend's face. _Not today, House_, he prayed to whatever deity looked out for them. _Be an asshole about it any other time, just not today._

House snatched the letter out of his mother's hand; the paper snapped in the air with the force. Now it was House's turn to turn it in his hands and stare at it: at the handwriting on the front, at the faint embossed stamp on the flap that had, of all things, the eagle insignia of the US Marine Corps. Wilson's heart sank as House's jaw twitched.

"Don't cause a scene, House. Open it," Wilson hissed in House's ear.

"No."

Wilson glanced at Blythe, whose gaze darted everywhere across the room except where her son sat.

"If you won't do it for yourself, at least do it for your mother." He plucked the envelope off House's lap and pushed it against his hand.

House took it reluctantly and opened it with his thumb. There was one sheet of paper with more handwriting inside; when House pulled the paper out and unfolded it, Wilson saw one short paragraph ghostly through the paper.

Wilson watched House scan the paragraph, and became alarmed as House's expression changed from a sullen scowl to outright fury. He crumpled the paper in his fist, pale as a Christmas ghost. He rose, his hand shaking badly on his cane.

Wilson rose too, reaching out to grab his elbow. "House, don't--"

"Greg--" Blythe began, also rising and holding her hands out to embrace him.

"Let go of me." House yanked his arm away from Wilson's grasp.

Blythe shrank back. Wilson backed off too at the ice-blue fire in House's eyes. He stepped between House and Blythe, his fists clenched.

"House, whatever you do--" he warned.

"Stay out of my way, Wilson." House turned and whipped the ball of paper at the fireplace.

Wilson watched helplessly as House fled the living room. The entire bungalow seemed to jump as the front door slammed -- Wilson thought he could still hear House's echoing thump-step as he and Blythe looked at each other. She shook her head, her eyes closed and lower lip trembling.

Wilson looked at the floor. The letter had bounced off the glass fire screen, instead of landing into the fire; it sat on the stone hearth. Wilson bent down to retrieve the letter. He sank back down in his armchair, carefully smoothing the paper out on his lap as best he could, and began to read the precise, upright script. It was dated a few days before the Colonel's death.

_Greg,_

_I don't have much time left, but before I die I need to tell you this. As your father I always tried to do my best by you. I am sorry things did not turn out the way you wanted. Still, you are my son, and you will always be my son. That is all that matters. _

_Dad_

Wilson folded the letter back up and looked at Blythe. Her eyes glistened.

"Will you go after him, James?"

He nodded mutely, rose, and grabbed his jacket on the way out, the letter still clutched in his hand.

The sky was a bluish-tinged gray, heavy with clouds that held a promise of more rain later on. Though it was forty-five degrees, the humidity made it feel much colder, a chill settling in Wilson's bones as he stood on the sidewalk out in front, looking up and down the street. It had only been a few minutes, but House was nowhere to be seen, and Wilson knew House could cover a lot of territory when he wanted to. He looked down and saw a couple of cane tracks dug into the wet grass, heading to his right. He jogged off.

House had slowed down and was wincing with pain when Wilson caught up with him a few minutes later. He turned and glared as Wilson approached him, huffing.

"Didn't I tell you to stay out of my way?"

Wilson stopped in front of him, trying to catch his breath and ignoring the stitch in his side. "You just had to make a scene back there," he said between gasps. "You couldn't set aside your differences with your father for even a minute, on Christmas Day of all days."

"Shut up, Wilson," House said hotly. "He wasn't my father. Period. Even if he were, a deathbed confessional doesn't change anything that happened."

"How do you know that?" Wilson threw his hands in the air. "You never bothered to visit him once when he was dying!"

Wilson stepped back when House took a menacing step towards him. "Yeah, bad son, I get it. And according to you, I'm supposed to think that those five sentences are enough to overcome forty-nine years of crap."

The image of Amber's note floated in front of Wilson. "Yes, because it's more than what a lot of people get!"

"People will say anything when they're dying if they think it'll absolve them of guilt!" House thumped his cane on the sidewalk.

Wilson withdrew the letter from his jacket pocket. "Do you know that for sure?"

House refused to reply.

"The letter itself doesn't count?"

House glared at him. "It's a damn piece of paper."

"You're the one who puts actions above words. Maybe--maybe your father didn't say what you wanted. All right. But it means--" Wilson stopped as the epiphany struck him, and he peered at House. "You can't see what this letter really means, can you? Maybe--maybe you don't _want_ to see."

"I can see fine," House replied, but Wilson heard the note of uncertainty in his voice.

Wilson held the crumpled letter out to House. "Then what does it mean?" he asked, very gently.

House did not reach out to grab the folded paper; he stared at the ground instead.

Wilson waited for a moment, then let go of the paper. House did not reach out to catch it; the letter drifted onto the gray sidewalk between them. One edge caught in a small puddle, discoloring as water wicked along it. House stared down at it, still not bothering to pick it up.

Wilson finally broke. "You ungrateful bastard," he whispered, shaking all over in his anger. "You got what you've always wanted. You got it for _Christmas_, and you can't even appreciate it." With that he spun on his heel and stalked away, ignoring the stunned expression on House's face.

All the way back to Blythe's, Wilson walked, hunched against the northern breeze, his bare hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He was too furious at House to think until he found himself in front of Blythe's tidy bungalow. He stopped, staring at the Christmas lights on the eaves that now blurred into fuzzy colored pinwheels. Amber's last note to him was neatly tucked away in the oaken trinket box that his brother Matty had made for him in eighth grade wood shop. Fourteen years missing now without a word...

And Amber's note had been a brief message, scribbled on the back of an ordinary envelope on her way out the door. A lousy envelope that had held their rent statement, of all things.

Wilson scrubbed his eyes with his fist. Drawing a deep breath, he strode to the front steps, pushed on the door latch and let himself in.

Blythe stood waiting in the vestibule, wringing a cheery green-and-white striped tea towel. "How is he?"

Her reddened eyes and the blotches high on her cheeks told Wilson she'd been crying, too. "He's fine," Wilson lied, pulling Blythe into an embrace. "He'll be back soon."

Blythe wrapped her arms around him and nodded into his shoulder. "I know."

They stood quietly for a minute, listening to the gas fire crackle behind its glass shield and to Bing Crosby crooning "White Christmas" from the stereo. Wilson found himself staring up at a photo that had been taken at the Colonel's retirement. Looking straight on, there was little evidence that he was House's biological father. Neither Blythe nor John had the long, intense face that House had. Of course John had to have known, Wilson thought. Hence the letter. One last try to bridge the gap.

A buzzing came from the kitchen. "I have to check the turkey," Blythe said, drawing back and sniffling.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

She gave him a watery smile. "How are you at peeling and cutting vegetables?"

~~~~~

 

When House finally did return, a couple of hours later, he acted as if nothing had happened. Blythe was so relieved to see him back that she willingly played along. Wilson bit his tongue. Wherever House had gone, he'd walked, Wilson thought. His face was pale and lined with pain and exhaustion; his eyes were red-rimmed, though as far as Wilson knew, he hadn't taken any hip flask with him. Indeed, House was completely sober. More importantly, he avoided Wilson's pointed looks as he headed straight to the bedroom. Not that anything Wilson could say to House would make a difference anyway; the door slamming shut emphasized that point.

Wilson did manage to corner House a couple of hours later in the bedroom, when he went to change into good clothes for dinner. House was stretched out on the bed, ostensibly napping, though Wilson knew by the rhythm of House's breathing that he was anything but restful. Wilson purposely banged drawers and suitcases shut while finding his shirt, pants and tie.

"Cripple trying to sleep here," House finally said, not opening his eyes.

At the side of the bed, Wilson stood over him, his hands on his hips. "Your mother was worried when you didn't come back."

House shrugged and looked up, perfectly dense. "She knows I can take care of myself."

"Where did you go?"

"To get away from you." House closed his eyes and folded his hands on his stomach. "I heard the cemetery is very peaceful this time of year."

Wilson blinked and took a surprised step back. "The cemetery--?"

"Did you know you can put pictures in gravestones now?"

Of course Wilson knew. He'd ordered one for Amber's memorial. But that wasn't the point.

"Did you visit your father's grave?" he asked, very gently.

"But some of those inscriptions," House continued as if he hadn't heard Wilson's question at all, "are lies. 'Beloved husband and father.' 'Cherished son.' You wouldn't have to emphasize them at all if they were actually true."

"Maybe just writing it down is enough." Wilson unconsciously reached out and laid his hand on House's shoulder.

Startled -- either by his words or touch, Wilson would never know -- House's eyes flew open. "Words don't matter," he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson saw something white sticking out of House's jacket pocket. Despite the tinge of anger that remained from earlier, he softened at the dullness in House's tone. He let his gaze slide away from House's unhappy face and saw a greenish spot on House's knee. Peering closer, he realized there were grass and dirt stains on the lower legs of House's jeans.

"Actions matter," Wilson said, squeezing House's shoulder.

"Come on, House," he added after a long moment, and let go. "It's time to change for dinner."

~~~~~

 

For only twenty-four hours' notice, the Christmas spread on the dining-room table was impressive. There was, Wilson noted, literally enough food set out to feed a small army. They would be able to last weeks with the leftovers. The turkey with its golden-brown skin crackling; the bowls of garlic-and-pepper stuffing, mashed potatoes, carrots, and Brussels sprouts arranged around the bird; the gravy boat brimming with smooth, creamy sauce; the round, fresh buns piled high into the wicker bread basket. From the kitchen came the spicy aroma of Blythe's brandy-soaked fruit cake and percolating coffee.

Or, maybe not weeks, Wilson corrected himself. House himself could easily tuck away half the feast and be back for more an hour later. He poured the sparkling white wine into the wine glasses, two-thirds full as was customary for the toasts.

"Greg, dear, dinnertime," Blythe called from the kitchen as she removed her apron and folded it over one of the chairs.

Wilson pulled out her chair as House thump-stepped from the den into the dining room--still wrinkled, still unshaven, but at least his button-up shirt and jeans were clean. He sat opposite Blythe; Wilson took the seat in the middle.

"It looks great, Mom," House said.

Blythe beamed, and Wilson thought how simple it was, yet so difficult for House, to pass along such ordinary compliments. He nodded agreement, just to see Blythe's smile grow brighter.

"Well, I hope it's enough," she said.

"It's amazing," Wilson assured her.

He watched Blythe draw in a large breath and exhale, as if steeling herself. "Well, I'll say grace, and then we'll do the toasts."

Wilson and Blythe bowed their heads. He looked sidelong at House, who didn't bother; House blinked and looked straight at the back of Blythe's head, reflected in the mirror hanging behind on the wall.

"Dear God, thank you for Your Grace this Christmas, that You brought Greg and James safely home, that we are together as a family this year," she said. Wilson shot a scowl at House when he rolled his eyes. "Thank You for guiding us through the good times and the difficult times. And thank You for Your bounty and Your blessing on this holy day. Amen."

Wilson repeated "Amen," but House did not, though at least he had the good sense to be looking down at the table by the time Blythe raised her head.

"Well then," she said brightly, though her smile was brittle. "It's time for the toasts. John normally starts them, but--Greg, will you start?

House looked up and blinked. "Okay," he said slowly. His mouth worked for a moment, then he raised his glass and said, "To Mom and her amazing power of cookery."

He smiled crookedly as if knowing it was lame, but Blythe's smile relaxed.

"To Blythe," Wilson said. They all clinked their glasses and sipped.

"Thank you, dear," she replied, then turned to Wilson. "Now, James?"

He considered for a moment, what to say that wouldn't sting Blythe. Then he thought of the shine of joy on Cuddy's face in the intensive care nursery, as she looked down at the miracle she would have after all.

"To the miracles of friends and family," he said.

"To friends and family," Blythe said. Even House mumbled it, albeit grudgingly.

Now it was Blythe's turn. Wilson alternated between looking at mother and son. Blythe stared down at an imaginary spot on the tablecloth in front of her, her mouth tight. House met Wilson's gaze reluctantly; his face looked indifferent, but Wilson thought he saw worry lurking underneath, in the lines around his eyes. They both knew what she would say; but it still pained Wilson to hear it from her lips.

"To missing and absent loved ones," she said finally, with a tremulous smile.

This would have been their first real Christmas together: exchanging presents, eating together, visiting her family, then his; after that they'd planned a week away in Barbados. Instead Wilson turned his head slightly to see the Amber-shaped absence sitting beside him. He had to clear his throat of the lump swelling inside it in order to reply. "To missing loved ones," he repeated hoarsely, then turned to look at House.

House sat, head bowed and eyes closed; the indifference was gone, replaced by sadness mixed with guilt in the set of his face. When he opened his eyes again, Wilson was startled at how clear and solemn they were.

House raised his glass. "To Dad and Amber," he said quietly, looking steadily at both of them.

~~~~~

 

Wilson sat in the armchair by the fireplace, feet propped on the stool in front, watching House flip through the channels on Blythe's TV. Dinner was long over -- long enough to feel comfortably stuffed now after his massive over-indulging -- and, for the first time since arriving, he felt somewhat at peace. Dinner had gone well and House had even helped with the dishes, if letting them air-dry could be considered helping. ("More sanitary," House had claimed.) Wilson planned to get Blythe's fruit cake recipe before they left, to try next year.

"Should really ask Mom to consider satellite," House muttered on his second run through the cable stations. "Basic cable sucks."

"Whoa! Stop!" Wilson said as a familiar clip rushed by. "Go back."

House went back two channels, where the movie _White Christmas_ was playing.

"Stay there."

House glared at him and pulled a face. "You've got to be kidding me."

"It's one of the biggest grossing movies of all time."

"It's a _musical_."

"It's a classic. With Bing Crosby, Rosemary Clooney, and Danny Kaye."

"Can you get any more gay?"

Wilson cheerfully ignored the barb and sneaked a look at House, who actually was watching the movie, if only half-heartedly. To Wilson's disappointment, the movie was almost over; it was already at the point where Bob Wallace was making his televised appeal to the soldiers of his former unit. Betty finds out that Bob really does want to help out the general, he thought, and things turn out okay in the end.

If only real life worked like that, Wilson thought wistfully, because House certainly was no Bob Wallace. But even House came through sometimes when it really counted. Maybe that was the best gift anyone could expect from him.

"Merry Christmas, House," he said softly.

House turned to him and nodded. "Merry Christmas, Wilson."

_Christmas Eve will find me  
Where the love-light gleams.  
I'll be home for Christmas  
If only in my dreams._


End file.
